


I Like the Way You Move for Me

by phdmama



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A bit of angst and trauma sorry, Auror Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Partners, Bisexual Harry Potter, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, I promise, It Turns Out FINE, Literally And Figuratively, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mention of Harry in a Speedo, Post-Hogwarts, Public Sex, Wanking Over Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-29 06:56:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16259003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phdmama/pseuds/phdmama
Summary: Harry and Draco have been Auror partners for over five years, and while they may not be friends outside of work, DracoknowsHarry. In fact, he's loved him for years, but he's too afraid of losing what they have to make a move. He's content with what he has, until an Auror trainee begins acting strangely and puts Harry in a difficult position, and what happens next will change everything.





	I Like the Way You Move for Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bixgirl1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bixgirl1/gifts).



> This is for my darling [bixgirl1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bixgirl1/pseuds/bixgirl1), who is one of my favorite writers AND someone I am lucky enough to call friend. She may not even remember because this was literally months ago because a whole bunch of things fell apart in my brain and I haven't written in a while, so I am so, so thrilled to have finished this, and bix my darling, I really hope you enjoy it!!
> 
> Also, a huge huge thank-you to my prereader/beta, [helloamhere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelloAmHere/pseuds/HelloAmHere), another one of my all-time favorite writers AND dear, dear friend (seriously, how lucky am I?). 
> 
> Please read the tags carefully and feel free to reach out if you have any questions!

“No,” Harry says, laughing a bit, but even Draco, sat all the way across the break room, can hear the thread of irritation laced through the amusement.

“Oh, come on,” says the pretty, young witch who is standing a little too close, with her hand on Harry’s arm. “It’s your birthday, you’ve just got to come out. I heard Ron,” and her expression adjusts a bit at the look on Harry’s face and then she coughs and plows gamely on, “I mean, Auror Weasley, saying that they weren’t going to be able to make it out tonight. The Saviour of the Wizarding World,” and here Harry’s face goes blank and he glances away, “shouldn’t be alone on his birthday.”

Draco eyes the witch — Chloe Something, he thinks her name is, Kavanaugh maybe? She’s one of the trainees over from America for the year. He does not recall standard trainee uniforms being quite that short or that tight, which probably explains why it’s unbuttoned almost down to her navel. It would be difficult for her to breathe with it fastened, nevermind chasing a suspect on foot. Potter has shifted from looking like a deer caught in a Lumos to that brick-wall face that he’s perfected over the years that Draco’s known him. It’s subtle, but Draco sees it: Harry is not happy.

They’re not friends, exactly, for all that they’ve been partnered for more than five years. They function well together, complementing each other’s strengths and bolstering each other’s “areas for growth” (as the performance review paperwork put it last year), and they’ve spent a lot of late nights on stakeouts, but they rarely hang out outside of work. Draco can count on one hand the number of times Potter’s been to his Chelsea flat, and he doesn’t need any hands at all to count the times that he’s been to Grimmauld Place.

However.

They may not be friends, but Draco _knows_ Potter. He knows that Potter drinks two cups of tea before he can even think about functioning in the morning, but that he prefers those god-awful caramel coffee drinks from the over-priced cafe around the corner. He knows that Potter needs to eat every three to four hours or he gets cranky (Draco’s taken to carrying protein bars and little baggies of that horrible dried fruit and nut mixture that Potter loves). Draco knows that Potter has enough magical power running through his veins to level a city block, should he wish to do so, hence needing to eat those high-protein snacks so often, to prevent accidental hangry city-levelling. And, Draco knows that Potter _loathes_ the whole “Saviour of the Wizarding World” thing and that there’s no quicker way to strike out with him than to bring that up. Not that Trainee Chloe has a chance, she’s not Potter’s type.

Oh yes, Draco knows that too.

So Potter and Draco may not be friends exactly, but they _are_ partners and they do have to get to their strategic planning meeting for this latest potions abuse case, so Draco takes pity on the man, drops his paper on the break room table and stands up, watching the way Potter’s eyes immediately fasten on his face.

“Potter,” he drawls, “If you’re quite finished filling your social calendar, let’s be off. We’ve got that meeting with Kingsley in twenty, and we need to review the case notes before we go.”

They don’t actually, because there aren’t any case notes, as the first victims had only come in last night and they don’t as yet have any idea what it is they’re dealing with, but Chloe doesn’t know that, and Potter makes his “Thank you” face at Draco and then turns to Chloe.

He somehow manages to remove her hand from his arm without hexing her. “I appreciate the invite, Chloe, but I’m not available tonight,” and walks away, leaving her standing in the middle of the break room, looking stunned but not, Draco thinks, defeated.

As they head back down to their shared office, Potter sighs and Draco snickers. “What, Potter, you don’t fancy a night out at the Gilded with Chloe and the trainees?”

Potter rolls his eyes as he opens the door and steps back to let Draco walk in ahead of him. The door swings shut behind them and Potter turns on the lamps with a flick of his fingers that has Draco rolling his eyes.

“Must you?” he complains, and Potter grins. “It’s just flashy, is all.”

“I think you like it,” Potter says and Draco turns away because he does like it, is the problem.

He really, really does.

They go to their meeting and it’s as boring as Draco thought it would be. New potion, formula as yet unknown. Addictive potential, as yet unknown. Long-term effects, as yet unknown. Source, as yet unknown. Dealer network, as yet unknown.

“Do we,” Potter asks in a measured tone as the meeting shows signs of winding down a scant ten minutes after it’s begun (and that includes the three minutes of “Happy Birthday, Harry, got any big plans tonight?” chitchat that Kingsley has to indulge in), “Do we actually know anything at all about this potion?”

“Well,” Kingsley says heavily, “It’s red.”

Draco can’t decide if he wants to laugh or cry. “Red?”

Kingsley nods. “It’s red. Stains on the victims’ mouths, colour doesn’t match up with any known potion.”

Potter makes a show of whipping out his favourite hipster Moleskine notebook and that stubby little, chewed-up pencil that he loves because he knows it drives Draco _mental_ every time he uses it. He licks the lead, writes out laboriously, “Potion is red,” and firmly underlines the word red twice. “Right. Well, if there’s nothing else for now, Malfoy and I will be off.”

They leave after another round of birthday small talk, and by unspoken agreement, take the stairs down to the main atrium and head out to get coffee before returning to their office to finish up the paperwork from the two cases they’d closed the week before. It’s an ordinary day, Draco thinks, watching Potter out of the corner of his eye. Nothing special, and yet, there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

They are just about done for the day when a memo flies in and raps Draco on the temple.

“Ow, fuck,” he says, grabbing it out of the air and unfolding it.

He already knows it’s from Pansy; she always sends her memos folded into the shape of a swan, and they’re the most _demanding_ memos in the Ministry.

“What’s up with Pans?” Potter asks from where he’s sitting behind his desk, lazily waving his wand to get his paperwork lined up in a neat pile before leaving for the day.

Draco has never understood this quirk. There’s no organization anywhere else on Potter’s desk: there are haphazard piles of files, several broken quills, and at least three dirty mugs transfigured from whatever Potter happened to have on-hand in the moment he’d required tea, but the man can’t leave for the weekend without having all of his notes for their in-flight cases perfectly stacked up and aligned. He claims that it helps him to leave the work behind so that he doesn’t feel anxious come Monday morning.

Draco unfolds the swan, which pecks at him irritably until he manages to smooth the paper out on his desk.

“Drinks,” he says, “at the Gilded at 6.”

He doesn’t say, “Do you want to come along?” even though he wants to, because they aren’t friends like that.

Draco and Potter aren’t friends, though Draco longs to be, and more, and this is the secret he’s held in for years now, the secret he plans on carrying to the grave.

He can’t even remember when he started noticing Potter in a new light. Sometime during eighth year, probably. It had been a hard time for him at Hogwarts, deservedly so, he thinks, but still. People hadn’t been actively unkind, due in no small part to Potter and McGonagall’s interventions, but worse, they’d ignored him. It had been a quiet year. Lonely. He’d a lot of time to think, and he’d spent most of it thinking about all the ways he had gone wrong. And Potter’s thighs clenched around a broomstick, of course. He was remorseful, not _blind._

After finishing at Hogwarts, Draco had been shocked when he’d been accepted into the prestigious Auror training programme but had jumped at the chance, even though it had been exactly as difficult as advertised. That was where things had shifted for Draco. Where people began to acknowledge his existence, to believe that he had changed. Where somehow over the course of the two-year programme, he’d been accepted as a colleague. He’d been humbled by his cohort’s compassion and forgiveness and had sworn he would do whatever it might take to become a better person. In the years since then, people have only got friendlier, and Draco thinks, his fate was sealed in the best possible way when he and Potter were assigned as permanent partners.

He can’t remember when he’d figured out just how much his feelings for Harry had changed. It was as if one day he’d woken up, gone to work, and sometime during their morning tea break, he had realized.

Draco had always imagined that love, for him, would be like a storm, wild and unpredictable, but it turns out, it’s not. It’s the warmth of that first sip of tea on a cold morning. It’s walking together down the cobblestone street in the hazy heat of a summer evening, when the sun doesn’t set until 9:00, the backs of their hands occasionally brushing because they’re walking too close. It’s a shared understanding that goes beyond words. It’s knowing that Potter has his back, and that Draco would die to defend Potter, no questions asked. And, for Draco, of course, it’s knowing that this is a secret that can never, ever be shared.

It’s not that he thinks Potter is entirely uninterested. Potter had come out at the end of the Auror training, and he’s dated a handful of witches and wizards in the years since, but none of them have stuck. Sometimes, when they’re up all night on a stakeout, huddled together for warmth, or sitting together working quietly in their shared office, Draco will look up to catch Potter watching him and he’ll feel the flare of heat between them. He’ll see Potter’s chest rise as he inhales, opens his mouth to say something, but he never does, and Draco never asks him to. No, he thinks, Potter isn’t uninterested.

But this partnership with Potter has already given Draco a life beyond anything he could have dreamed about when he was young and in torment, and he is terrified of losing that, and if that means he suffers, that they both suffer, well, that’s a price he’s willing to pay. In any case, he’s quite sure Potter will get over it sooner or later.

Now, he looks at the memo on his desk and then raises his eyes to find Potter’s steady gaze on him, and he can’t look away for a heartbeat, one, then two. Three. Just as Potter opens his mouth to speak, starts to say, “Drac—” there’s a rap on the door and it swings into the office to reveal Chloe lounging in the doorway, and the moment is lost. Potter’s face shutters and Draco looks away with an eye roll.

“Just thought I’d check in one more time,” Chloe trills. “It’s your birthday, Harry, come out with us.”

She’s changed out of her uniform into something tight and skin-baring that puts her considerable assets on display. Not that Draco can blame her, really. She’s young and gorgeous, confident that she can catch any man’s eye, but when Draco glances at Potter, he’s not surprised to see that Potter is looking at his desk and not at the trainee, and Draco can see the muscles jumping in his jaw as he clenches his teeth in an effort to stay silent. Finally, Potter takes a breath and speaks.

“Like I said earlier, Chloe,” he says, and then inexplicably gives Draco a pleading look, “I’m not available tonight.”

“Oh, come on,” she says, coming into the room at what, Draco thinks, in America, they might call a sashay.

She’s ignoring Draco completely, and Draco wonders a bit at her boldness, and then remembers that Potter had given her some extra coaching in hand-to-hand last week, and apparently she thinks it means something it doesn’t. Even when Potter goes for women, Draco thinks, he trends towards sporty and feisty, not curvy and flirty.

“I heard you tell Auror Weasley that you didn’t really have any plans for tonight, but you’d see him on Sunday.”

“Actually,” Potter says, “I do have plans. My boyfriend and I are getting drinks with friends.”

You could hear a pin drop in the silence that follows and Draco’s eyes widen. Potter has a boyfriend? When did this happen? He ignores the stabbing pain in his gut and looks down to where he’s crumpled the memo up in his fist.

“Oh,” Chloe says, sounding suddenly abashed and very, very young. “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry, Harry. I... I didn’t know.”

Potter shrugs and then gives Draco that same pleading look and says, “Well, it’s new. And…” Here he rises and comes over to stand behind Draco and drops one hand on his shoulder as Draco twists around to stare up at him. “We’re keeping it quiet for now. You know.” He squeezes Draco’s shoulder, _hard_ , and Draco squeaks.

Draco watches Chloe’s eyes widen, watches them dart from Potter’s face to where his hand is still resting protectively on Draco’s shoulder, and then Draco squeaks again as Harry tightens his grip and almost shoves him into his desk.

“Oh, err, yes,” Draco gasps, and turns to look at Potter again, doing his best _what the actual fuck_ eyebrows at him.

Potter widens his eyes back at him with his best _just fucking play along Malfoy_ look, so Draco frowns severely at him and then turns back to Chloe.

“Sorry, Chloe,” and she stares at him.

It’s probably the first time she’s ever really looked at him as anything other than an impediment to her access to Potter, Draco thinks.

He opens his mouth and then closes it, at a total loss for what to say, but thankfully, Chloe just says, “Oh, well. Yes. Okay. I’ll, uh, see you later then,” and flees the room.

Draco almost feels bad for her, but also thinks it might be a good lesson to learn that you should ask before making assumptions, and then turns again to glare at Potter, who hastily removes his hand from Draco’s shoulder.

“What the fuck?” Draco hisses, “What the actual _fuck_ , Potter? Now that trainee thinks we’re, what, dating? And you’ve met her, haven’t you? That woman hasn’t had an unexpressed thought in her head since she started the training programme. There’s no way she’s not going to tell every single one of her friends about this, _all of whom happen to be trainees as well_.”

Harry looks away and runs his hand through his hair. “Fuck, Draco, I’m sorry, I just… I needed the alibi. She’s been chasing me for weeks and it’s too much. I can’t be blunt with her because she’s pretty vindictive, from what I’ve heard. And she’s my direct report — I have to be careful.”

“And I’m your partner,” Draco hisses, trying not to thrill at the sound of his name on Potter’s tongue. They don’t often indulge in first names. “Did you think about that?”

Potter shrugs, shoves up his glasses and then, oddly, gives Draco another pat on the shoulder before going back to his own seat.

“I looked it up, as long as we’re not in direct reporting line, it’s actually okay. Like, it’s not a great idea, but there’s no regulation against it.”

“Oh,” Draco says, frowning. “Well,” he continues, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms, “What’s your grand plan, then?”

Harry has the decency to look a bit abashed. “Err, I didn't have one?” he says carefully, and Draco rolls his eyes. Honestly, Potter. “I mean, I could come to drinks with you tonight? You said Pansy wanted to go to the Gilded. I could go with you, Chloe will see us out together, she can spread it around that we’re dating, that’ll get her off my back.”

Draco looks at him for a moment, and then nods.

“I mean,” he says cautiously, “You’re not suggesting we fake-date or pretend to be…”

“Lovers?” Harry helpfully fills in and Draco grimaces.

“Ew. Don’t use that word.”

Harry grins and Draco catches his breath.

“Lovers,” Harry enunciates clearly, “Lllllllooooovvvvers.” He makes a face. “Okay, I see your point.”

He pushes back from his desk and, pulling his legs in, sets his chair spinning, which Draco knows means he’s thinking deeply about something. The chair slows and comes to stop.

“No,” Harry says finally, “I’m not suggesting we fake-date.”

“Then why,” Draco can’t help asking, “Did you just tell the biggest gossip in the building that we’re dating?”

Harry just looks at him for a long moment, and then looks away and says “I told you, I just… lost my head. Anyway,” and here he blatantly changes the subject, “Drinks at six? That’ll give me time to go home and change, yeah?”

Draco nods and watches as Harry suddenly leaps to his feet, grabs his wand and bustles out the door with a brisk “Later, Malfoy” and he’s gone, leaving Draco sitting in their office, wondering what the fuck just happened.

Draco finishes up the last of the paperwork and heads home. He’s got about an hour before they’re meeting, and he’s perplexed, confused and more than a little aroused by the whole situation. He strips out of his work clothes, hangs the robes in the wardrobe and drops the dirty laundry into the basket that automatically sorts it into the laundry room. It had been pricey to put in the laundry system — the charmwork was quite finicky — but worth every last sickle, Draco thinks happily.

He heads into the bathroom and gets the water running with a flick of his wand. Sure, he could cast a charm, but he never feels fully cleansed after them, and there’s something so... _satisfying_ about a nice, hot shower.

Draco runs his hands over his body. He has to admit, he’s in the best shape that he’s ever been in, and he appreciates his own lean and muscled abs for a moment. Kingsley demands a high level of fitness from his Aurors, and Draco and Harry have got into the habit of meeting in the morning to work out before they have to be in the office. Draco slides his hand down and wraps it around his cock.

He pictures Harry as he’d seen him that morning. Draco had been working legs while Harry had been swimming laps. The weight room has a large window that looks out over the pool, and Draco has to admit, he’d spent more time eyeing Harry’s lean form than doing his squats. Draco’s hand speeds up as he remembers the curve of Harry’s bum as it had risen out of the water during his flip turns, the play of Harry’s pecs as he’d cut through the water on his fly laps. He recalls the sight of Harry climbing out of the pool, water streaming down over the barely-contained bulge in his teeny, tiny red suit and his well-defined quads, and the way Harry had looked when he’d turned his back to the window and bent over to pick up his towel, and then Draco surprises himself by coming all over the wall.

It’s not first time he’s wanked over Harry Potter, Draco thinks philosophically as he scrubs himself down, and it most likely won’t be the last. He turns his attention to the important question of the moment, namely, what on earth is he to wear on this fake date. He wanders back into his bedroom and sits naked on the bed, appreciating the breeze from the fan and the cooling charm that keeps his room comfortable even in the summer heat. Magic, he thinks with great satisfaction, and not for the first time, is fucking _awesome_.

He finally decides to go for a combination of comfort and sex appeal. After all, he reasons, if he and Potter actually _were_ in the early stages of a real relationship, he’d definitely be dressing with the goal of torturing him out in public. While they’re not, in fact, dating — fake or otherwise — he can’t help the way his heart leaps as he recalls the look in Harry’s eyes and that charged moment before they’d been interrupted. Which reminds him, if nothing else, he’s got to make this work for Harry to get Chloe off his back. He hadn’t realized how persistent she’s got, and he frowns as he wonders what might have changed to make her so bold.

He wiggles into his black skinny jeans which are both surprisingly comfortable and highlight the effect of all those fucking squats he’s been doing. He adds a slim-fit button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to show off his forearms, in a soft pink with lemons scattered across the fabric, which he thinks Luna will find amusing. He chooses a pair of Converse low tops in a darker pink than the shirt and pulls them on. He tucks his wand into his back pocket and glances in the mirror. He’d shaved his head after the war, wanting to look as unlike his father as possible, but the stark style hadn’t suited him. Of late he’s been wearing it a bit longer on top, still shaved underneath. He runs his fingers through the tousled waves, and considers it good enough. After all, Harry’s seen him in every possible circumstance over the years. He knows what Draco looks like.

Draco takes one last look in the mirror, and then takes a deep breath and apparates to Diagon Alley.

When he gets to the Gilded Lizard, there’s a line forming at the door, but Marco waves Draco past it and inside. Draco pauses for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dim light. The Gilded is one of the many entertainment hotspots that had sprang up on Diagon after the war, and it’s one of the few that’s survived. At this time of night, it’s a classy bar with delicious tapas, and after 10:00, it turns into a dance club. At almost 30, Draco rarely stays for a late night of dancing anymore, but he and his friends have made something of a tradition of gathering here for drinks on Friday night, and he looks over to see Luna waving at him from their usual table.

He makes his way through the sparse crowd, noting the usuals are there: Luna, Pansy, Blaise, Ginny, and Dean. He resolutely does not look around to see if Chloe and the trainees are there yet.

“No Seamus tonight?” Draco asks as he slips into the booth where there’s already a glass of wine waiting for him.

“No, he’s got some special function at the Leaky tonight. I’m going to head over there after dinner here,” Dean says, taking a sip of his pint.

Draco nods and tests the wine. “Good,” he says, looking at Luna who is grinning at him expectantly, “Let’s see. Made by elves in the mountains of Switzerland?”

She nods happily.

“From grapes harvested under the blue moon?” She puts a hand up to cover her mouth, and Draco pulls a pretentious face as he continues, “And yes, ahhh, let’s see, the elves were, of course, nude during the harvest,”

Dean snorts.

“And I’m tasting a hint of… let’s see, snail and motor oil, and,” Draco sips again, “Oh yes, of course, seaweed,” and they’re both still laughing when Draco sees her gaze shift to somewhere behind his head, and her face lights up.

“Harry!” She jumps up and wraps her arms around him, pulling him close into a comfortable embrace. “I didn’t know you were joining us tonight?”

Unspoken is the fact that Potter never joins them on their Friday night post-work drinks. Draco knows he’s got a routine with Ron and Hermione, especially now that his fellow Gryffindors have spawned and find it more challenging to get out at night. In addition, while the press coverage has eased up in the last few years, at least enough for Potter to do his job, places like the Gilded are notorious for being hangouts for the paparazzi employed by the Prophet, Wizarding News Daily, and of course, Witches Weekly. It’s guaranteed that if Potter shows up on a Friday night, there will be photos splashed across these publications, not to mention their 4WN sites online, and Draco knows that it irks him.

Which is why, Draco frowns into his wine, it makes no sense that Potter has suggested this as an outing. Not only will Chloe spread it around at work, but there may very well be press coverage, something Potter hates. He looks up to say something to Potter and his mind goes blank as all the blood in his body settles in points distinctly south of his belt.

Harry has showered and done something to his hair such that it looks sexily windblown, not simply messy. He’s wearing the gorgeous, gunmetal grey glasses frames that Draco helped him pick out last year, and _Merlin on a broomstick_ , is that an earring? Harry Potter has an earring? He’s put on a slim, short-sleeved button-up shirt that’s got a print of whimsical dragons on a white background, and fitted jeans that aren’t quite as tight as Draco’s but still show off his legs quite nicely. Draco drags his eyes up from where they’d been staring at Potter’s thighs to find Potter openly laughing at him.

Potter slides onto the bench and drapes an arm around Draco’s shoulders, causing Blaise and Dean’s eyes to widen in duplicate expressions of surprise. Draco watches as Ginny and Pansy exchange a knowing look, identical smirks playing around their mouths. They spend far too much time together, those two, Draco thinks darkly.

“What’s this, then?” Blaise asks, clearly trying for casual.

Draco sees Potter open his mouth out of the corner of his eye and waits to see what he’ll say. He doesn’t relish the idea of lying to his friends.

“I’m in a bit of a pickle at work,” Potter admits. “Overly-enthusiastic trainee. I told her I had a boyfriend and she somehow,” he gives an awkward chuckle, “Ha. Ha. Ha. No idea _how_ , really, but _somehow_ she got the idea that Draco and I are dating.”

Draco twists his head to stare at Potter in disbelief. “You don’t know how? What the fuck are you talking about? She thought we’re dating because you told her you had a boyfriend and then you came over and touched me.”

“Ooh, where?” Luna asks, “Anywhere interesting?” and Draco and Potter turn as one to look at her.

“On the shoulder,” Draco says finally, narrowing his eyes at her, and she just nods back, looking deeply satisfied.

“Anyway,” Potter continues, “I just thought if maybe she thought I was taken, she’d get off my back. She’s really persistent, always signing up for hand-to-hand training and popping up when I’m leaving the loo. It’s a bit unnerving. We’re not going to fake date or anything,” he adds hastily when Ginny frowns at him. “I just thought if we were hanging out here tonight, she’d see us and maybe… back off a bit.”

Ginny sighs. “Harry, that’s a terrible plan. You should just _tell_ her to back off.”

“Don’t you think I haven’t tried?” Potter hisses, and Ginny sits back in surprise at the genuine irritation in his voice. “I’ve told her that I’m not interested. I’ve told her she’s my direct report and I can’t date her and she just,” he shudders a bit, “She just sort of rubbed against me and said she’d never tell. Honestly, I think she’s a bit delusional.” He frowns and adds defiantly, “I’m putting that in her final evaluation.”

Pansy sits up and leans in. “Potter, this is sexual harassment. You have to talk to Kingsley about this. This isn’t okay.”

Potter says glumly, “The regulations state it only counts as harassment if it’s from someone in a higher position, so she’s protected.”

Luna looks outraged and Ginny says, “That’s _bullshit_. I’ll look into this on Monday.”

Draco feels a measure of relief at this. No one had been more surprised than Ginny herself, when, after a bad fall, she’d left the Harpies and stumbled into an apprenticeship with a magical legal counsel firm. She’d done the full course and now works closely with the Auror department. All that fire that had made her a formidable opponent on the Quidditch field is put to good use in her current profession.

“I know,” Potter says, “But the training year is over in six weeks and I know she’s going back to Los Angeles, so I won’t have to deal with it anymore. I’ve just heard the way she talks about the other trainees to me. It’s really nasty, but she also said she’d never try and, poach, I think was the term she used, another person’s man. If I have a boyfriend, I’m hoping she’ll leave me alone.”

At that moment, there’s a burst of raucous laughter from the bar area and Draco glances over to see a large group of people he can only categorize in his mind as youngsters, and he recognizes several of their trainees, including Chloe.

“She’s here,” he hisses at Potter, who responds by snuggling in even closer, so that Draco can feel the warm heat of his body pressed in all along his side. “What’s the game plan?”

“I don’t know,” Potter says, sounding slightly panicked, “Is she looking over here?”

Draco checks and shakes his head.

“Just… act normal,” Potter says finally, “But maybe with... more touching.”

Touching. _More touching._ Okay, that’s fine. That’s cool. Draco can do this. He looks up to see Chloe watching them consideringly from across the bar and feels a moment of rage that Potter, who is one of the most frighteningly decent men Draco’s ever met, has to deal with the attentions of this woman. He knows that Potter’s had to deal with this more than once over the years, and it never fails to irritate him.

He finishes his drink with a decisive sip and turns to Potter. He’s going to sell this, he decides, already a bit fuzzy from the wine. He’s going to sell the fuck out of this, and so he leans in and plants a kiss on Potter’s lips.

Potter, it turns out, is not anticipating this and inhales so quickly, he chokes on his own spit. For a moment, all is chaos as he and Draco sort themselves out.

“Smooth,” Draco whispers with an eye roll as Potter wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Fuck’s sake, Potter.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Potter says, clearly flustered and flushing a bit, “You just, err. You surprised me.”

“Well,” Draco says grumpily, turning away, “You’d better hope Chloe wasn’t watching for that little demonstration. She’ll never believe that we’re together.”

“Oh no,” Potter says, and Draco can hear the mocking tone of his voice, “We can’t have that now, can we,” and here he pauses and reaches up to cup his hand around Draco’s jaw to tilt his face back towards his own, “Draco.”

He says Draco’s name softly, low in his throat so his voice is husky, and the tone seems to resonate directly with Draco’s dick, which is suddenly alert to the idea that something interesting may be happening. Potter runs his thumb over Draco’s cheekbone and then ghosts over his lips and Draco can’t help the way they part under that gentle touch.

Potter keeps his eyes locked on Draco’s, and Draco finds he can’t look away, mesmerized by the heat on Potter’s face as he leans in and brushes his lips against Draco’s. The touch is so light that it almost feels like he didn’t make contact at all, except for the way that touch lights a fire from Draco’s mouth to his groin. By way of his heart.

 _Fuck_ , Draco thinks.

Then Potter leans back with a smirk and says, “That’s more like it,” and it feels like a bucket of ice water to the face, because that’s right.

This isn’t real.

Draco glances over just in time to see Chloe turning away, and even in the low light of the bar, he can see she’s flushing.

“Well done, Potter,” he says, and Potter frowns.

“Don’t you think you should call me Harry?” he suggests, and Draco sighs and tries again.

“Well done, Harry,” and the name is like ash on his tongue.

The rest of the evening progresses in more or less the usual way. They get appetizers and a couple of rounds of drinks. They chat about work and gossip about their absent friends. Dean leaves after the second round, and Blaise and Ginny head out not long after him. The only new thing is that Harry spends most of his time pressed up against Draco, whispering hilarious commentary in his ear about the various fashion choices of the other patrons.

Draco sees that Chloe and her group have migrated a bit closer to the corner booth where what’s left of his group is sitting. Every time he glances over, he sees Chloe hastily look away, and she’s even more animated than usual, standing with one hip cocked out as if to say, _hey, look what you’re missing._

Draco can’t help but notice that no matter how closely he watches, Harry’s eyes never seem to be drawn to her, no matter how loudly she’s laughing or how provocatively she’s leaning into Garrick, one of the other trainees (and Draco can’t help but snicker a bit at that — Garrick is an enormous Northern lad, stoic and stolid, and he seems more than a little alarmed to have Chloe plastered up against him in such close proximity). No, every time Draco glances over to see what Harry’s looking at, Harry is looking at.

Him.

Harry is looking at _him_ and Draco doesn’t know what to make of it. He’s caught between fear and desire as his own gaze is repeatedly pulled back to Harry. This _feels_ different, as if he’s never seen Harry before, the familiar landscape of his cheekbones and jaw suddenly novel and uncharted, as if Draco hasn’t spent hours, _years_ , tracing those known and beloved contours with his eyes, longing to touch. It’s like he’s seeing Harry for the first time.

He vaguely registers that Pansy and Luna are leaving, too caught up in the way he’s making Harry laugh to offer anything other than a vague “Goodnight” and looks up to find the table empty but for the two of them. The lights drop as the music is turned up, and the transition from restaurant to nightclub is complete.

Harry leans in and Draco shivers at the brush of his lips on Draco’s ear and Harry says, “Well, what do you think? Do you want to head out?” and Draco feels a flash of excitement that drops when Harry says, “We should walk to the apparition point together, make it looks like we’re going home together,” and he realizes that Harry means, head out to their respective homes because, oh yes, this isn't real.

He manages to keep the disappointment out of his voice as he says casually, “Whatever you think, mate.”

He winces, trying not to roll his eyes at himself. Mate? _Mate?_ When has he ever in his life called anyone _mate_ , and he can tell from Harry’s look of confusion that Harry is probably thinking the exact same thing.

“Or,” Harry says, just as casually, eyeing him closely, “We could, you know. Stay. Dance a bit. Make it look like…” his voice drops and Draco can’t help the shudder that passes through him at the husky tone, “...foreplay.” He doesn’t meet Draco’s eyes as he adds, “I’m not sure she’s buying it, you know? We might need to sell it a bit more.”

Privately, Draco isn’t sure he agrees, but then he looks up and catches Chloe’s eye. She’s leaning back on her elbows against the bar, chest thrust out as she blatantly stares, and even as Draco watches, she turns, tossing a sultry look over her shoulder at Harry as she yanks Garrick onto the dance floor, who stands there helplessly, looking to be more tree than man as Chole shimmies her way around him. Draco frowns, wondering just how drunk she is. Her behavior seems off to him in a way he can’t even explain, but the thought is lost as Harry looks at him and Draco realizes he’s been quiet for too long.

“Come on,” he says, standing up and grabbing Harry’s hand, “Let’s dance.”

They head onto the dance floor and Draco tugs Harry towards the back of the club. They make their way past Chloe and Garrick, and Draco swears he hears a hiss as they pass, and he thinks briefly, _that’s odd,_ but then Harry turns and winds himself around Draco, shifting his hips to the bassline, and Chloe is forgotten.

Draco isn’t familiar with this song but it reminds him of Harry, bold and defiant, and his heart is pounding as Harry presses against him, his arms wrapped around Draco’s shoulders. Draco is taller, though not by much, and their eyes meet and hold as the music swirls around them.

“What is this, this song?” he asks as they move together and Draco can feel the solid plane of Harry’s chest pressed against his own, they’re that close.

Harry shrugs, licks his lips. “I don’t know, I think it’s a cover, heard the original on the radio the other day, it’s more rock than this. Some band out of America. Draco…” His voice trails off as his eyes flick down to Draco’s mouth and then back to meet his own.

Heart pounding in his chest such that Draco fairly sure Harry can feel it through the thin cotton of his shirt, Draco doesn’t say anything, only holds Harry’s gaze and then nods, once, and Harry leans in.

His mouth on Draco’s is firm and sure, and he tastes like gin and smells like spice and lemons. The shape of his lips is new but somehow still familiar to Draco, and for a long moment, they’re standing still on the dancefloor as Harry kisses Draco like he’s memorizing his taste, and it feels real, but it’s not. It’s not real and suddenly Draco can’t stand it any longer and pulls away.

He takes a step back and notices how Harry immediately starts to move into him and then pauses, holding himself back as he looks at Draco in the dim light.

“I’m sorry,” Draco says, so quietly he’s not sure Harry can even hear him, “I’m sorry, Harry. I can’t.” And he turns to go.

Harry grabs him by the wrist and tugs him close, leaning in to be heard over the music.

“Wait a minute, Draco. Wait. What’s wrong?”

It’s almost as if time freezes and Draco realizes that nothing will be the same after this moment, and he can’t see any way that this ends well. Either he tells Harry the truth, takes the chance and tells him, or he shuts this down now, but if he does... Draco closes his eyes for a moment against the stab of pain. If he lies, walks away, he's not sure he sees how to continue on as Harry’s friend. As his partner.

Harry is frozen, watching Draco, and suddenly Draco _gets_ it, sees the same fear, the same questions, the same fucking _yearning_ that he’s feeling written all over Harry’s face and he feels something in him stand down. They stare at each other, the noise and heat of the club swirling around them and then Harry starts to smile, and Draco can’t help himself.

He rolls his eyes and flicks Harry on the shoulder. “You don’t have to look so fucking smug about it.”

“Tell me,” Harry says, and Draco frowns at him.

“Why?”

“Because,” Harry says, taking a deep breath and running his hand through his messy hair, a sure tell that he’s nervous and Draco smiles in spite of himself, “Because, fuck, Draco, you have no idea. I’ve been waiting so long.”

Draco’s eyes widen and then he can’t help but lean in and press his lips to Harry’s again, and it’s like two storm fronts crashing together. It’s lightning under his skin. It’s heat and want and the ache of desire that he’s been holding back forever, it seems. It’s magic, it’s home. It’s everything. He’d thought love was soft and easy? He’d had no idea, Draco realizes.

They kiss for long moments, lost to the world around them and then finally, Draco takes a breath and eases back.

“It’s real,” he says quietly and watches the smile spread across Harry’s face like sunrise. “It’s not pretend for me.”

Harry nods. “How long?”

Draco feels his lips quirk into a wry smile. “A long time.”

Harry gives a grin and a rueful shrug. “Same.”

They look at each and then Draco sees a flash of movement in the crowd behind Harry that he somehow registers as familiar, but even as he starts to move, starts to shout out a warning, Harry’s mouth opens in surprise. He is spun around towards Draco, and then drops at Draco’s feet, and in the dim light, Draco can see the stain of blood spreading out from under Harry's body and across the dirty dance floor.

******

Draco apparates them straight into the emergency department of St. Mungo's, whose personnel are, thankfully, used to such occurrences and immediately swarm about them, shouting questions.

“A hex.”

“I don’t _know_ which fucking hex, he just fucking _went down.”_

He’s shouting now. “You need to tell the Aurors, it’s Chloe Kavanaugh, she’s an Auror trainee. She’s the one who hexed him. Tell them!”

His arms ache as Harry is lifted away and carried off, surrounded by green robes and flashing lights. An older witch, he can’t remember her name but he knows her face from his own stays in the ED, leads him over to the benches and sits him down. His sleeves are stiff with Harry’s blood and all of a sudden he feels nauseous.

The world spins and the no-nonsense witch shoves Draco’s head down between his knees.

“Breathe, Auror Malfoy,” she says firmly. “Sit here, don’t move, just breathe. I’ll be right back.”

He stares at the cracked tile of the floor, panic for Harry pounding a refrain in his ears. _Is he alive? Please, Merlin, let him be alive._ He longs to follow Harry into the operating room, even though he knows from bitter experience how futile it is to attempt that. He’s fairly sure the treatment rooms are warded against him specifically at this point.

He spies movement out of the corner of his eyes, and the witch is back. She helps him sit up and hands him a glass of cold water. He drinks and waits.

“We’ve contacted Mr Weasley and Ms Granger,” the witch says finally. “They, along with you, are listed as Mr Potter’s emergency contacts.”

Draco glances at her in surprise. He hadn’t known Harry had listed him. He also has never told Harry that Harry is first on his list of emergency contacts. Given that they’re usually together when something goes awry, it’s never really come up.

“We’ve also contacted the Aurors,” the witch continues and Draco squints at her name badge. Allison Spinetti. That’s right, he remembers now. “They’re waiting for you in the field office downstairs. They said that once Auror Weasley and Ms Granger get here, if you could come downstairs, they’d appreciate it.”

Draco nods. “Thank you, Allison,” he says, his voice thick, and he sips the water which is cold, fresh with a hint of mint.

He wonders, not for the first time, which variation of Aguamenti this is, because he’s never been able to get it right. There’s a commotion at the end of the hallway and then Ron is running towards him. Draco stands, and Ron grabs him in a hug that spills the water all over the floor, but neither of them pay attention.

Ron is panting and white, his freckles standing out in stark relief. “Draco, what the fuck? What happened?”

Draco starts shaking and Ron wraps an arm around his shoulders, which. This is new. It’s a night for new things, Draco thinks vaguely.

“We were at the Gilded. You know that trainee, Chloe? I guess she’s been harassing in him.”

Ron nods in understanding, and Draco goes to run a hand through his hair and then curses, looking at the blood drying on his skin. He shivers as Ron yanks out his wand and casts a quick charm, just enough to get his hands clean, and nods his thanks.

“So, she came by this afternoon,” Draco can’t believe that was only hours ago, it feels like weeks. An eternity. “And Harry being Harry decided to tell her that he has a boyfriend, and somehow she got the idea the boyfriend was me.”

Ron opens his mouth to speak and then, rolling his eyes, and then mutters “For fuck’s sake, Harry. Okay, go on.”

“So we decided we’d just… play along a bit,” Draco says, knowing how ridiculous it sounds, aching at the memory of the way hope had bloomed in his chest. “Luna, Pansy and the rest, we were doing our usual Friday night drinks out but Harry came with us. Chloe spent the evening watching us, doing her best to get his attention.”

“Bet that worked really well,” Ron says, sarcasm dripping from his words, and Draco stares at him. “Oh come on, Draco, are you really telling me you didn’t know?” He looks at Draco in surprise and his gaze softens. “Merlin, you two are a sorry pair.”

Draco shrugs. “I’d hoped, maybe, but I didn’t really know. I was scared.”

“He was, too,” Ron says softly, and knowing that Harry has talked about this to his best friend eases something in Draco.

“Anyway, we were on the dance floor, and I guess it got a little…” Draco flushes, remember those kisses, “It got real, you know? We talked a bit and…” His voice trails off as he remembers. “And then I saw something, I don’t even know what, probably her wand movements, out of the corner of my eye but before I could do anything, before I even fucking moved, he just went down. As soon as I saw the blood, I apparated us here, and that’s all I know.”

Ron closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath. He knows protocol better than any of them. “You going downstairs?”

Draco nods, but can’t quite force himself to step away. He has no idea how badly Harry was hit, and even though he knows a little blood goes a long way, he can’t stop replaying the way Harry’s face seemed to go blank as he fell.

“I’ll find you as soon as I hear anything,” Ron says.

Allison nods as well. “Go on, Auror Malfoy. Give the healers some time to work.”

Draco makes his way to the Auror Fieldwork office in the basement, where he finds Michael Wu, an Auror he doesn’t know well but has heard good things about, sitting at the desk.

“Draco,” Michael says, and gets up to shake Draco’s hand. Shutting the door behind him, he guides Draco over to the couch and they sit.

Before Draco can say anything, Michael says, “She’s in custody.”

Draco stares. “That was fast.”

“It was that northern lad, Garrick? She cast the hex and he took her down, brought her in. They have her in at headquarters. Kingsley’s doing the interrogation.”

And at that, Draco feels a bit of the terror drain away. Kingsley is relentless, and very, very good at what he does.

“Do they need me to come in?”

Michael shakes his head. “No, not until... “ His voice trails off. “Not until later. You can do the preliminary statement now, but there are plenty of witnesses, there’s no doubt about this one, it’s just a question of why. I don’t have any information about that.”

They talk a bit more and Michael takes Draco’s statement, frowning at the report of the ongoing harassment Harry’s been experiencing.

“It seemed,” Draco said thoughtfully, “Like in the last several weeks, something shifted. She really upped her pursuit, you know? Harry was talking about it tonight. I wonder what changed?”

Michael nods and sets down his quill. “I hope we’ll find out. Why don’t you head back upstairs, see how Harry’s doing.” He claps Draco on the back as he ushers him to the door. “Harry’s a tough guy, I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

Draco doesn’t mention that this is not a helpful thing to say, only nods and says, “I better get back up there.”

As he’s heading towards the lift, he spies a flash of white and Ron’s Jack Russell comes bounding down the hallway.

“Get back up here,” Ron’s voice says as the terrier grins, “Get back up here.”

Draco panics, punches the call button eight times before the lift doors open and concentrates on not screaming as he rides back up to the ED. He races down the hallway and skids to a halt, looking for Ron, and then he hears shouting from a room. Heart dropping in relief, he heads towards the noise.

“I’m fucking fine,” Harry is shouting, “Where’s Draco? Is he okay? I need to see Draco.”

Draco pushes into the room where two nurses and a healer are holding Harry down while a second healer is tracing his wand in a complicated pattern over the wounds in Harry’s back and saying in the kind of soothing tone that Draco knows Harry loathes, “Now, now, Auror Potter, you need to rest, your partner will be here soon, I’m sure.”

Ron is saying, “Mate, Harry, come on, you've got to calm down, Draco’s just downstairs giving his statement, he’ll be here in a moment.”

Draco closes his eyes for a moment against the rush of emotion that wells up in him at the sight of Harry complaining.

“So, Potter,” he drawls in his most posh accent, the one he only breaks out to drive Harry crazy, “Decided to remain amongst the living, have you?”

He watches the way Harry collapses onto the table at the sound of his voice, and makes his way around to sit on the stool by Harry’s head. Harry’s a mess — there’s blood everywhere, he’s grey and the shadows under his eyes are so deep it looks like he’s been punched in the face, multiple times — but he’s alive, and that’s all that matters. Alive and seriously pissed off, if Draco has to make a guess.

“It was fucking Chloe, wasn’t it?” Harry snaps and Draco snorts.

“Got it in one, Potter. She’s already in custody down at headquarters.”

Harry’s lip lifts in a perfect snarl and Draco can’t control the grin that crosses his face.

“What the actual _fuck_ ,” Harry says, sounding highly aggrieved. “She fucking _cursed_ me.”

Draco’s eyes widen. “Do they know with what?”

The healer who’s continuing to knit Harry’s lacerated back back together says, “Not something we’ve seen before, but definitely dark magic, and definitely curse-level. Auror Potter mentioned that the attacker is American?”

Draco nods. “Yes, is that relevant?”

“It can be,” the healer says, “It can help guide us in figuring out the correct diagnostics.” He looks up at Draco and says, “For the trial,” as if somehow Draco is a little slow and might not understand that they are collecting evidence here.

Harry rolls his eyes and Draco snorts.

“Yes, Healer, I’d gathered that part,” he says patiently. “How is Auror Potter doing?”

“I’m fine,” Harry says impatiently.

The healer says, “Auror Potter’s injuries were severe but healable. There was significant blood loss,” and here he eyes the disaster of Draco’s very nice going-out outfit and the _obviously_ is left unspoken. “The speed with which he was transported here was vital, so that we were able to save his life, heal his spinal cord injury and replenish his blood quickly enough that there will be no lasting damage.”

Draco blanches at the “save his life” statement and by the time the healer has finished speaking, the only reason he hasn’t pitched head-first off the stool onto the floor in an actual faint is that Allison leaps across the room and shoves his head down between his knees (again) with such force that he narrowly misses bloodying his own nose with his knee.

“Breathe,” she instructs firmly as she presses a cool cloth to his neck and Harry makes distressed noises in the background. “Just breathe for a moment, Auror Malfoy.”

*****

After what feels like years but is in actuality only a few hours, Harry is released with a box full of potions, instructions to stay off his feet for the next 48 hours, and a bad attitude. He stomps down the hallway, flanked by Ron holding the potions, and Draco, and pushes the call button for the lift as if it has personally offended him

They get into the lift and suddenly Harry moves. He hits the emergency stop button and says to Ron, “Avert your eyes, mate,” and shoves Draco against the wall.

“What the fuck?” Draco gasps and then Harry is kissing him.

Oh. _Oh_.

Draco gets with the programme and kisses Harry back just as enthusiastically, though he tries to be mindful of Harry’s newly-healed back injuries as he wraps his arms around Harry’s body and holds on. He is suddenly drained, crashing from the adrenaline drop, and the feel of Harry’s body against his, solid, warm and alive, makes him want to cry.

After a moment, Harry pulls back to rest his forehead against Draco’s.

“I thought you were dead,” Draco whispers and reaches up to cup Harry’s cheek with his shaking hand. “I thought you were fucking dead, Potter.”

Harry smiles. “I’m not,” he says gently, leaning into Draco’s touch and turning his head to press a kiss to Draco’s palm. “I’ve only just got you. I’m not leaving.”

He leans in again. They’re too tired, too spent for anything more than a soft kiss. It’s gentle, comforting and it feels, Draco thinks, like a promise.

After a long moment, they pull back and he glances over to see Ron resolutely standing with his back to them, one arm slung over his eyes.

“Are you lads done?” he inquires and Draco starts to laugh. “It’s just, it’s three in the fucking morning, and they want you at headquarters at nine a.m. to take statements, so I’d suggest getting right to bed.”

Draco can’t help the snort he makes and he can feel Ron rolling his eyes even as he drops his arm and hits the button to get the lift moving again.

“To sleep, Malfoy,” Ron says firmly, “I don’t give a witch’s tit if you do it together or apart, just get some goddamn rest. You both look terrible.”

“A witch’s tit,” Draco muses as they exit the lift into the dimly-lit reception hall of the hospital and make their way over to the floos. “What exactly is the exchange rate for bodily parts, Auror Weasley? And why a witch’s tit? Why not, I don’t know, a wizard’s ballsack or something?

Ron sighs. “I’m going to go home and tell my wife that our oldest friend is not dead and appears to have tied himself up with a smart ass. And she’s going to be thrilled.”

His face softens as he looks at them, and then, shoving the box of potions into Draco’s arms, he pulls Harry into a long embrace, exhaling roughly into his shoulder.

When they separate, they're both a bit teary, and Ron swipes at his eyes. “Just glad you’re okay, mate, and honestly?” He glances between Harry and Draco. “Took you long enough,” and Draco can hear him muttering to himself as he grabs the floo powder and walks away, “Fucking fools, the both of you, I swear to _Merlin_ ,” and then he disappears into the flames, leaving Harry and Draco staring awkwardly at each other.

“So, err,” Harry says, shuffling a bit and reaching out to take the box of potions from Draco, who just sighs.

“Just, come to mine, okay?” Draco says and Harry smiles.

The next morning, everything is terrible. Draco wakes up to the sound of his alarm going off and wants to cry. Every muscle in his body aches, he’s still exhausted, and since he went to bed with a wet head after a quick shower, he knows his hair is going to be all sorts of floofy. He rolls over and jumps when he sees Harry curled up next to him, frowning in his sleep, and suddenly nothing is terrible.

Harry’s here. He’s alive, and he’s right here, next to Draco.

Draco pokes him. “Why the face, Potter.”

Harry doesn’t open his eyes. “Does it seem at all strange to you, Draco, to have me in your bed and still be calling me Potter?”

Draco shrugs and pokes him again. “What would you prefer? Do we need to be formal? I could call you Auror Potter, if you insist.” He snickers and then says in an exaggeratedly husky voice, “Oh, Auror Potter, are you going to arrest me? Oh no, Auror Potter, please don’t restrain me!”

Harry sits up, eyes still closed and frown in place, and Draco can’t help the flush of affection that sweeps over him as he eyes Harry. He’s less grey than the night before, though he’s still too pale, and his hair’s a mess.

Harry finally opens his eyes and says, “You know, I did actually almost die yesterday, I don’t think I’m quite up for Auror/criminal role play this morning, especially since we have to go in for statements in, fuck, 20 minutes.”

Draco laughs and then leans over and presses a kiss to Harry’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s get up. If we go now, we can get coffee and scones from that place.”

So that’s what they do. They get their coffee, they give their statements, and then spend the rest of the day snuggling on Draco’s oversized sofa, listening to music and reading. Draco finds that he needs to run his hands over Harry’s back about every thirty-five minutes or so, to combat the memory of holding Harry’s limp and bleeding body in his arms as he apparated them to the hospital. Harry endures this with great equanimity, only occasionally muttering “I’m fine, Draco” as Draco pours yet another blood replenishing potion or nerve tonic down his throat.

Ron and Hermione show up for dinner with curry and enough naan to sink a ship, and Hermione also spends a fair amount of time running her hands over Harry as if to reassure herself that he’s really okay. They’ve all recovered remarkably well from the trauma of the war, Draco thinks, but there are moments.

“So,” Ron says, after they’ve eaten and they’re all lying around groaning from being so full, “What’s the story with you two now, anyway?”

Draco and Harry look at each other in surprise and then Draco says, “what do you mean?”

“Well,” Ron says, shoving himself to his feet and going into the kitchen to rummage in Draco’s freezer for ice cream, “Are you boyfriends now? Or what?”

“Ronald Weasley,” Hermione hisses from where she’s face down on the floor in front of the fire, “We talked about this on the way over.”

Harry shrugs and Draco says, “I want a real date first. No fake shit, I want the real thing. We never even got our dance in.”

Harry sits up and accepts the ice cream that Ron hands him, digs in and takes an enormous bite and then points the spoon at Draco. “I will take you on that date, Draco Malfoy. We’ll have a do-over at the Gilded, next Friday.”

Their week ends up being ridiculously busy, which Draco thinks is probably unsurprising given that an Auror trainee has attempted to murder her direct supervisor, and no one quite knows why. It turns out that she’s been imperiused by some fringe group that Harry and Draco have been investigating, and they’re able to trace the magical signature of the caster to a high-level administrator at Gringotts. Basically, all hell breaks loose, especially since Harry’s been banned at Gringotts since the war so it’s a bit of a challenge to get the warrant to have the wards altered so Harry can make the arrest. It doesn’t leave a lot of time for exploring their new relationship.

“We need to get this wrapped up by 4:00,” Harry informs Kingsley, as they escort the screaming administrator down the steps, squinting against the flashbulbs of the photographers who have been tipped off about the arrest. “I have a date.”

Kingsley sighs and just says, “Fine, you can leave the paperwork with Malfoy.”

Draco snorts as Harry says, “No can do, Minister, my date’s with Malfoy,” and briskly apparates the prisoner away as Kingsley glares at the place where he had been standing, and then turns the glare on Draco, who holds his hands up in a placating manner.

“You know what?” Kingsley says, “I do not want to know. Just. Don’t do it on the clock, Malfoy,” and then he also apparates away, leaving Draco standing bemused until it occurs to him that he actually does need to get this paperwork done sooner rather than later if he wants to be on time for his date, so he hastily apparates away after them.

An hour later, Draco’s in his bedroom and he sits on the floor for a moment and takes a deep breath, registering the fact that it’s only been a week since he was here, getting ready to go on a fake date with Harry, so sure that nothing could happen between them. Other than a couple of scorching kisses, he and Harry haven’t got to spend a lot of time together, but the week has been filled with heated glances and lingering touches, along with, of course the attempted murder investigation and arrest, not to mention the actual attempted murder itself. Harry had been tired and sore for a few days, but had insisted, as they’d brought the Gringotts guy into processing, that he was fine for their date, so they’re meeting at the Gilded at 6.

Draco takes a shower, heroically manages not to wank over Harry Potter and snorts as he thinks to himself that maybe, if he plays his cards right, he’ll get to wank _on_ Harry Potter and then groans at himself. He chooses the same skinny jeans, once more giving thanks for his awesome laundry system, and hums a bit as he looks over his shirt options, finally choosing a shirt with a print that from a distance looks like flowers, but up close reveals itself to be whales happily swimming about. He pulls on his lavender converse, the pink ones still being blood-soaked, grabs his things and heads back to the Gilded.

He shakes off the deja vu as he makes his way to their usual table, makes more jokes with Luna about the wine, and feels his pulse start to race as Luna leaps up to wrap Harry in a long hug, murmuring in his ear for quite some time. She’s not the only one. Pans gives him an affectionate shake and a head ruffle, Blaise slaps him on the back and hands him a drink, and Harry is a bit rumpled and out of breath when he finally lands on the bench next to Draco after Ginny has squeezed him tightly and then punched him, saying “Don’t fucking get murdered, you fucker, and we’re working on these harassment regs immediately.”

Draco is quiet as the evening progresses, content to lean into Harry, enjoying the feel of Harry’s strong body next to his, the way Harry wraps his arm around Draco’s shoulders even as he leans over to listen to Ginny ranting about abuse of power and sexism in the wizarding world. Draco runs his hand over Harry’s leg, enjoying the shift and play of the muscles under his fingers as Harry glances at him, a small smile playing about his lips. He watches as the others drift away, one by one, and, then, just like the previous week, the lights drop and the music gets louder, and then Draco stands.

He holds out his hand and watches as Harry slowly gets to his feet. Harry is in jeans and a t-shirt that brings out the green of his eyes and the curves of his biceps, Draco notes, as Harry moves out from behind the table, slides his hand into Draco’s and tugs him out onto the dance floor as the music surrounds them.

At first, it’s fine. Draco focuses on Harry, the way he moves in the low light, notices the way the bassline thrums in his bones as they dance. They’re moving in closer, and suddenly Draco sees a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye and in an instant past and present merge and he’s confused. Is Harry standing here in front of him? Or is he on the ground? Is that blood? Draco takes a step back, breathing wildly as he tries to make sense of what is happening.

Harry looks concerned.

“Draco,” he says, tone urgent over the sound of the music, “What is it? Are you okay?”

Draco stares at him and can’t find the words.

“Draco?” Harry asks again, and moves in close, rests his hands on Draco’s shoulders. “Hey, Draco, what is it?”

“You,” Draco whispers, and his hands come up to curl around Harry’s biceps. “You’re here.”

“Yes,” Harry says, and Draco sees the understanding cross his face, “Yeah, sweetheart, I’m right here.”

Draco feels a flush of _something_ at the endearment and packs that away to look at later. He closes his eyes for a moment and lets his hands slide from Harry’s arms to his shoulder blades to pull him in closer, tucking his face into Harry’s neck. He takes a breath as it washes over him again, how close he came to losing this, losing _Harry_.

“Draco,” Harry says, his mouth close to Draco’s ear, “Draco, I’m right here, it’s okay. I’m okay.”

Draco holds on tight for a moment longer and then pulls back to meet Harry’s gaze. Harry reaches up to trace his fingers across Draco’s jaw and then draws him in for a gentle kiss.

“I’m okay,” Harry says again, “Right here.”

They kiss again, and it’s so soft and sweet, Draco feels like he’s melting. They are an oasis of calm in the midst of the bodies moving around them, and all Draco can think as Harry’s mouth moves over his own is, _at last at last at last._

They kiss like they've invented the act, like they’ve been lovers forever, and all of a sudden, Draco wants more. He wants his hands on Harry’s skin, his mouth on Harry’s body, he wants to shout his defiance to the world, they’re alive, _they’re alive._ Against all odds, it seems, they’re alive and here and whole and _together_ , and that may be the greatest miracle of all, Draco thinks, and he pours all of this, all his joy, his desire, his love, into this kiss, and he knows with every cell of his being that Harry feels it too.

And then. And then. The kiss changes, and where it was sweet, now it’s fire; where it was soft, now it’s bruising; where it was gentle, now it’s grasping hands and bodies pulled taut against each other. Draco can feel the way the muscles in Harry’s back move under his hands, the way Harry is hard against his hip as he slips his leg between Draco’s thighs and Harry’s hands slide down to pull Draco even closer.

“Fuck,” Draco whispers against Harry’s mouth and Harry gives him a frankly filthy grin.

“Not yet,” he says softly, so Draco can barely hear him over the music, “Soon. I can’t…” his eyes close as he slips a hand between them to cup Draco through his jeans, “I don’t want to wait that long.”

Draco knows this is madness. They’re on the dance floor, for Circe’s sake. Their coworkers are here, not to mention the press, but then the lights dim even further, and Harry moves, guiding Draco to the back of the club which is shrouded in shadow. He presses Draco against the velvet wall hanging and fastens his mouth on Draco’s neck and suddenly Draco doesn’t care where they are. There will be time for that later, he thinks fuzzily as he arches into Harry’s body, time for love that is slow and sweet, but not now. Right now there’s only this — heat and friction and the desperate need to pull Harry as close as he can, as the music drives them higher.

Harry’s hands are busy between them, and the touch of cool air on Draco’s chest surprises him until he realizes that Harry has been unbuttoning his shirt even as he’s been marking Draco’s neck, and then Harry leans over and fastens his mouth to Draco’s left nipple and Draco’s mind explodes. His head thunks against the wall and then Harry presses a hand against Draco’s achingly hard cock and Draco actually shouts.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he’s aware that he’s being loud, but the music is louder and the lights are low and he feels almost invisible here in the dark at the back of the club as Harry yanks down the zipper of his jeans and works his hand into Draco’s pants.

“Fuck, fuck,” Draco moans as Harry continues to apply a level of suction to his nipple that is both agonizing and brilliant, even as his hand does something amazing and altogether new to his cock.

Draco struggles to form a coherent thought. There’s something about this scenario, something he knows he should be paying attention to, and then it hits him.

“Harry,” he hisses, “Harry, fuck, we have to stop, we’re in public,” and Harry Potter just grins that grin that Draco would follow anywhere under the sun, and drops to his knees even as he says, “No.”

“We’re not going to leave. We’re not going to wait.” He pulls Draco’s cock out just enough to get his mouth on it and licks a hot stripe from base to tip and Draco shudders, catapulting towards the edge now and nothing is going to stop this. “It’s going to be messy, it’s going to be loud, and it’s going to be right here, where anyone could see.”

He sucks Draco down to the root and, overwhelmed, Draco cries out and comes.

Harry seems a bit surprised but takes it gamely, choking a bit at the end as Draco’s head slams back against the wall as he shudders his way through one of the best orgasms he’s ever had.

“You...” Draco gasps out, “You… you…”

Harry is grinning even as he wipes his mouth and climbs to his feet. “Yeah, baby, me,” he says and then grunts as Draco smacks him on the arm.

“You are a fucking _madman_ , Harry Potter, what the actual ever living _fuck_?” Draco hisses between clenched teeth even as he’s grabbing Harry with one hand, pulling him closer, yanking Harry’s zipper down with a ferocity that makes Harry yelp, even as he’s shoving the hand that’s not grasping Harry’s ass into Harry’s jeans and wrapping his fingers around the warm, bare, flesh he finds there.

There’s not a lot of room to work, but that doesn’t stop Draco. When he puts his mind to it, he’s really quite determined.

“You have any idea the trouble we’re going to be in if your friends from the Prophet got that on film?” Draco asks as he jacks Harry off, as Harry groans and shudders, and whispers, “Draco, oh god, _please_ , Draco, just like that, don’t stop,” and Draco doesn’t stop.

It’s too dry, and too close quarters, and within moments, Draco’s wrist is aching and it should be terrible, but Harry is holding onto his shoulders, staring into Draco’s eyes like he’s watching the sun rise, like he won’t ever look away, and he’s reduced to murmuring Draco’s name now, over and over, and it sounds like a prayer on his lips when his back arches, and still holding Draco’s gaze, he comes.

For a long moment, they’re still, simply gazing at each other as their bodies start to settle, Draco’s hand still jammed into Harry’s jeans, which, mercifully appear to be covering him up so he’s not bare-assed to the club.

And then Harry starts to laugh.

He laughs long and loud, back shaking under Draco’s hand as Draco extracts his other hand from Harry's jeans and swiftly wipes it on Harry’s thigh while Harry’s not looking.

“I saw that,” Harry says, still snickering and leans in to kiss Draco, long and slow, and if Draco’s knees get a little weak, well, that’s a secret between him and the velvet-covered wall. “I can’t believe you didn’t stop yelling at me while you were jerking me off.”

Draco grins and then lets his head drop to Harry’s shoulder, and Harry folds him into a tight hug, and they cling to each other for a long moment. Draco turns his face into Harry’s neck and breathes him in. He smells like sweat and sex and that spicy citrus cologne he’s been favouring for the last year or so, and he smells, Draco thinks, like the best thing on earth.

“It’s true,” he says quietly, “We’re going to be in a world of hurt if anyone saw that.”

Harry shrugs, and then tucks his cock away, easing up the zipper with a wince, before helping Draco put himself to rights. Draco gets his jeans zipped while Harry finishes buttoning his shirt, leaving the tails untucked. He winds his arm around Draco’s waist as they make their way towards the back exit, electing to try and avoid the crowds.

“No one saw,” Harry says finally, as they step out into the summer evening, the air cool against their skin after the heat and press of the club. “I cast a disillusionment charm as we went back there.”

Draco frowns and then, understanding, rolls his eyes even as he leans over to press a kiss to Harry’s shoulder as they make their way down the street. Again with the wandless magic.

“Must you?” he complains, “You know it’s flashy,” and Harry smiles.

“I think you like it,” he says confidently and Draco can’t quite believe how things have changed in just a week’s time, and lets himself hope, for just a moment, that maybe he’ll get to keep this.

He stops, and tugs Harry around to face him, reaches up to skim his fingers along Harry’s strong jaw, to run his thumb over the perfect bow of Harry’s lip, then leans in to kiss Harry, trying to convey with the press of his lips the words he’s not quite ready to say.

“I do,” Draco whispers, watching Harry’s smile widen. “I really, really do.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction, meant only to entertain. Please don’t break the 4th wall or post anywhere else! 
> 
> As always, the words, as well as the errors, are mine. 
> 
> Feel free to [come say hi on Tumblr!](http://phd-mama.tumblr.com/) If you enjoyed this, the rest of my stuff can be [found here!](http://archiveofourown.org/users/phdmama/works)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and I appreciate every kudos and comment so much!!
> 
> If you enjoyed this, and feel so moved, I'd love it if you shared [this rebloggable post](https://phd-mama.tumblr.com/post/178931601293/i-like-the-way-you-move-for-me) on Tumblr!


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